eM:I-elle, A Techno Fairy Tale.
Part 1: There Was...
Chapter2
Written By Ivan Overmoyer
Illustrations by Anna Overmoyer
Copyright (c) 2014, All Rights Reserved
(In case you missed it, Chapter 1 can be found here)
The days were
explosions. Bright sun flash reached over ground and house and
swiped its gaze over the underneath before it disappeared over the
eyelid rim of CitySky. Light faded over the day until it was nothing
and night again. Cycles of life passed this way neverchanging and he
remembered days for the life lived, not as the world did: day after
day, after fading day, forever.
He woke with the
sun’s hello and dressed. His clothes were not fine, but thick and
warm, worn, edges frayed but still
intact. With new sunburst still in mind he walked through the
small stone house and outside without eating. The back door of the
house faced Stalkward, away from the sun, and this was the way he
went. The world was bright, silent, just waking and still, but for
the faint chip chipping of his father's hoe in the distance. He
stood and leaned against the stone wall, wrapped arms around himself,
waited.
Far off was a leany
shack where the poet dwelt, over on top of the shallow hill and far
aside the village bounds. Its thin walls pushed at the wind,
strained to stay upright. He watched, he waited.
Chip… Chip…
Chip… Chip… Chip…
He saw nothing
through her slight window. Even here he would see the flicker from
her candle, or darkness as her face blocked frame but today there was
nothing and no one and he was tense, no sense of time, only worry and
suppressed panic. He waited.
“You're up early.
Eaten?”
His father's voice
and only now he noticed the faint
chip chipping had turned silent. His father was tall, lean
muscles grasping his neck, held stubbly head over shapeless pigskin
coat. Worn headscarf covered what was left of his hair and he peered
down at his son with large black eyes.
“No,” he
replied, answering the man’s gaze with his own eyes. He too was
tall, but not as much. With a thick woven shroud around him of deep
brown, he had dun hair shaggy to match. His stubble was not as dark
or thick enough to match the elder’s Scruff, but those who didn’t
call him Cabel knew him as Young Scruffy, son of the old farmer.
His father rumbled,
“You worry again.”
He timidly replied,
“I do.”
Old Scruffy looked
to the poet’s house. “She’s stayed longer in seclusion than
this, but you’ve not lost appetite over it. What cause have you
now?”
A shiver shook the
young one’s frame. “She’s not stirred in seven days from
there, though she had only enough supplies for three.”
“Starvation
doesn’t come in four days,” the old one said.
“But weakness
does for one as frail as her.”
“Then she has
found some other food source.”
The young one shook
his head. “The hill is barren, the grasses too sparse and hard to
eat. No moss pigs burrow there and the only meat is ilvi.”
“Any who eats
ilvi gets exactly as he deserves.”
“She would not,”
Cabel said quick, “you know that.”
The old man was
solemn. “You think something has happened to her.”
“I fear the
worst.” He looked at his father. “I have to go to her, help in
any way I can.”
“You want to
bring her food.” It was no question the old one asked, he knew his
son’s intentions. Anyone else would have beaten the boy.
“If she cannot
provide for herself.”
“Do what you
must.”
Old Scruffy hefted
hoe to shoulder, turned treaded slowly around the house. The garden
lay Edgeward and he had work undone. Cabel waited to hear his
father’s hoe before he pushed his weight from the wall and onto his
soles, giving the poet’s leany shack one last look before he headed
downslope toward the village.
Shady
Grey sat, a town of worn dirt paths as trenches between rock and
house, squat in a shallow valley, walled on all sides but
edgeward where the sun peeked every morning. Most were small farms,
little plots of peaty chilling ground where grasses and dark berries
grew beside the wooden storehouses and pokey dwellings. Cabel trod
the path, punched dust with
pig skin shoes.
The village
centered on a wide pond trickling in and out from each side. A
strong, slow stream, the shape a malformed pancake, deep dark and
cold hiding sinister creatures and barely edible animals. Over the
trickling-out sat a large paddle wheel pushing around slow with a
steady rhythm of squeaks and groans coming from the building it
drove, a sad wooden box with a shallow curve top.
And people,
trudged the pitted streets nodding their hellos, stopped by
the water's edge, drew buckets or skins, went on their way. Others
with satchels of sustenance. Cabel continued on to the box himself
with trepidation and a nod here and there to those who greeted him.
A woman, older, left as he came upon the door and he held it for her
and she murmured a thankyeson, was on her way and Cabel slipped
through.
The creak-and-groan
was louder inside but what meager light shone through the dusty
windows revealed none of the machine that produced it. Most of it
was hid, and the main room was small with naught but a counter and a
scale and a door within. A rotating shaft along the ceiling. A bell
sounded as the entrance closed. The door behind the counter was left
standing open and a gaunt hairless man came swift through though
stopping just beyond the frame to scan Cabel, toes to scalp with
sharp blue eyes under a heavy brow.
“Hello young
one,” he said in a mild voice, “and what might you be here for
today?”
“I need to make a
withdrawal, Smith. Please.”
The heavy brow
raised. “A withdrawal it is, then. For you took some five days
worth of bread last time. This hour precisely in fact, am I right in
thinking you went hungry yesterday?”
“Day before,”
Cabel said, “I could not eat.”
“Feeling sick
then are we.”
“A withdrawal.
Please.”
“Still your
nerves young one.” His teeth showed oddly clean. “How much do
you wish to take out this day?”
“Eight days of
meal.”
“That leaves you
with four until the next fortnight. You are sure?”
“Yes.” Cabel
stood firm though his jaw shook.
“Far be it from
me to question.” Smith bowed his head, slipped backward through
the door. “Wait here for me.”
Cabel had not
realized his meager balance. He would have to work extra to stay
fed, but it would not be so bad. He could stand some hunger, and his
back was strong.
Smith returned with
a sizeable sack of dun brown cloth, plomped down on the counter’s
top. “Here it is,” he said. “Will there be anything else this
morning? Credits to tell perhaps?”
“None today but…
might I ask after another?”
Smith’s head
turned slowly sidewise, blue eyes narrowed. “You might. Who will
you be asking after?”
Cabel took in a
shuddering breath. “Emielle. The poet.”
“Ah…” and the
word escaped as a breath. “Not thinking of charity are we?” His
claw released the top of the sack and Cabel snatched it before the
edge could fall.
“That’s none of
your concern.”
“I should think
so,” answered he, “but it’s a fool who gives food to the likes
of her when he has barely enough for himself.”
“But who else
would?”
“And that…”
Smith backed slowly into the shadow of the back room. “That is
none of my concern.”
“You answered not
my question!” called Cabel.
“You already know
it,” came the grumble though the walls, and Cabel left huffing.
Now was his journey
homeward and Cabel went with the sack over one shoulder. Fortunate
was he, he knew, to live in his father’s house. But he worked for
his own food whether Smith knew it or not, repairing walls and roofs
of those who could not themselves, and the old ones spoke well of
him. He would deal his meal as he pleased. Upon return the house
was vacant and he went to his room to split the sack, scooping the
meal to earthen jars. Then he struck out to the hill, out to where
the poet dwelt.
Over dirt and rock
and clumps of red grasses, pushing up the incline step by step by
step, feet forming rhythm in his mind and matching it with his lungs.
It drew in his mind and hardened his body, protected him from the
cold. It was a long walk to her dwelling over a path trodden enough
to be barely visible. He kept his eyes to the ground. The wind
swirled around him, a long-haired dancer breathing in his ears and
laughing him on his way, mocking his knotted worry. He knew that his
father was right and starvation would not come to her so soon, yet he
still feared that it would be one step closer to losing her singular
mind forever. That would be difficult for him to bear.
The trance broke
when he arrived at her dwelling. His feet stopped and tingled, his
legs wobbling, still wishing to continue, his breath kept running,
confused, why did we stop we were doing so well.
The ancient structure stood there in its gray stone and
grayer mortar, square angles jutting from the loose hilled ground
like a single jagged tooth. A metal door and a stone block corner
with the other two walls constructed from discard metal and wood,
broken pieces of ancient things, patched holes and ragged. Any color
had all turned to gray and brown and it pushed against wind rain and
snow. He raised his hand and knocked upon the metal door and the
whole structure seemed to shake as the door gave in its frame,
begging him to stop.
Wind answered the
knock and nothing more, howling in hollows, holes in walls. Cabel
pressed the door handle which scraped and ground in itself and let
the door open with a sickly pop, grating over the floor and he pushed
it closed behind him. Sack fell from shoulder and landed hard on the
ground a sifty sigh. It was no warmer inside but with less wind.
“Emielle?” He
called her name but heard no answer and ventured a step through the
tiny room toward the blanket that covered the door and the plank
floor bobbed under his feet. “Emielle, are you there?” A cold
wet tapped his bare ankle and he startled, shouting sudden fear, but
it was only a long furry ilvi and its damp nose and it stared into
his eyes with amber orbs. Ears pressed back against its neck, and it
had a dark mask on a white face. “Gdjaaaa-aaaaa-aaaa.”
He swung his arm angrily at the thing for frightening him so. The
creatures made him uneasy and he did not fancy them touching him
without his permission or prior knowledge, but he knew better than to
strike them. These, animals of bad
omen, but bringing them harm was even worse. “What do you
want, ilvi? I have food but not for you.”
It rocked forward,
batwings rising earily above its head, sniffing attention to sack and
meal, then bounded arcing past and under the blanket door. Cabel
followed and pushed through blanket to the room beyond. Surrounded
by broken furniture and scrap cloth. He saw across the space an ilvi
brown of face sitting erect and alert distrusting with its eyes,
another curled a ball of grey in sleep beside it. The one he
followed in had turned to his left and he saw the snuffling behind
two wooden crates, bending toward human figure on a cloth pile.
She lay alone
shrouded in old cloth a thick shirt and torn pants in layers, limbs
folded fetal with breathing shallow and tear tracks sideways down her
face. Hair dark short and wavy scattered around her head and shading
eyes.
His breath stilled
and he knelt by her, wishing but not daring to touch her cheek. The
ilvi stared up at him. “Em-mielle?” He whispered the word like
a secret that he did not want known, but her eyelids fluttered open
and she saw him.
“I didn’t know
you were coming.” Her eyes were still unfocused and her words were
weak.
“I didn’t tell
you I was.” He stared into, fascinated by her eyes, the strands of
rich blue as they stretched back and forth reading his face. “I…
brought you meal,” he said, and she smiled, he could not help to do
it himself. “I will prepare it for you.”
As he started to
stand she moved her hand gently to his knee. “Oh… leave me some
dignity,” she whispered. “I’m not helpless utterly.” He
froze, stopped by her gesture and she leaned up to her knees. She
offered a hand to the ilvi for a quick sniff and scurry off under a
table as she stood, gazing sleepily at the room around her. She
wiped the tear tracks from her face. “And I dreamt of the sky,”
she murmured. “Thank you, Mung.”
“Why did you
sequester here for so long?” He watched as she slipped slow and
silent across uneven stone floor. Her stove was nestled a metal pan
under metal hood under metal pipe rising through crooked roof against
a stone wall between Senegal and Bijou’s table and a stack of fuel
blocks.
“The brothers
were gone. They would be hungry upon their return and worried were I
not here. Gone so long I had to wait. And so I did.”
“Gone…” he
stared at her setting the bricks of woodmoss in the stove. “Gone
where? Not stealing more books again…”
She lit the stove with a sulfur match, scraped against the ground. “What else?” She looked back at him.
She lit the stove with a sulfur match, scraped against the ground. “What else?” She looked back at him.
“You would bring
the Empties here? You mustn’t let them do such things!” With
anger or unease his hands shook, unsure which.
“Even if I wished
them not to they could not be stopped.” Bijou ever upright gave a
yawn as Emielle ran hand over head ears and neck. The stroke
shivered his spine, leaning into it and they could all sense Cabel’s
discomfort. “Their nature dictates what they do, not my word. The
books they would hoard even were I not here.”
“But you don’t
need to encourage them!”
“I will do as I
please,” she said stiffly and her words kicked at his stomach.
“I… I’m
sorry,” he said, his anger shrinking to regret. “I worry for
you, that’s all. If the Empties came and took you away…” Here
he halted.
“They would come
for the ilvi and me. They would leave the village alone.”
“But your work…
would all be lost! If that… I couldn’t…”
She smiled and put
her hand on his shoulder. “Someday it will all be lost anyhow. I
do not write to be remembered, I write because I must.”
“But what about
me, or my father? We love your work, would you deprive us?”
She touched her
forehead to his. “If they stopped stealing books, it would have
the same effect.” She smiled wider. “Worry not.” She went
back to the stove, retrieving a small metal cauldron from a hook
inside as the fire sputtered bright.
Cabel sputtered as
well. “But… your poetry comes from within you! You don’t need
the ilvi for such beauty, you are an artist on your own!”
She looked up at
him from scooping some cupfulls of meal into the vessel. “And I
suppose you can patch the wall of a home without mortar, or build a
door without wood and metal?” He deflated yet again. “Cabel, we
do not tell each other how to work.”
He sighed deep and
slow. “Nothing I say can persuade you?”
She smiled.
“Nothing.”
He turned toward
the door, eyes sweeping ilvi asleep around the room. There was so
much about her he didn’t understand. “Just promise me this as
thanks for the meal… be careful. Don’t get taken. I would not
want my charity to be in vain.” He stepped away, back toward the
rocks and dirt and cold, pulling his cloak tight around.
“Wait,” she
said, and he stopped and she scurried to her bed, pulling out her
journal, flipping through tattered remains of ilvi dinner. She
pulled a page, folded and held it to him. “Here. Take this, and
know I will be careful.”
He took the paper
as an egg and held it close to his chest. “Work well, and please
take care of yourself.”
“The same goes
for you.”
And he nodded and
left.
In the wind he
unfolded the scratchy sheet and read as he trudged.
The night is old
as I fold my tent
and set out for
another day, toting rations,
bed and damp
canvas, striking out
against the
untamed plain for somewhere
I’ve never
seen.
That somewhere
out there I’ve never been to,
where there’s
water and sky
where the ground
isn’t mirrored by a floor above
my head and
everyone grows as tall as they can
because they can
without fear of
bumping their heads on the sky.
And I
know I can get
there if I just keep
walking against
the untamed plain,
back loaded with
rations and damp until
I get tired and
set my tent
to recharge for
another day of walking,
rest and repeat
to continue on
until I reach
the sea.
Breath issued
joining the wind around him as he held the poem to his chest with
lines still fresh in mind. A smile broke his lips and he hunched his
shoulders as he shivered, not from cold. This he would add to his
collection and treasure. He folded it up following the creases she
had made and held it close, pretending it was her.
The small stream
that fed into the river that ran into the village went past a path
which led to the poet’s house, not far from the spring of its
origin, a crater in the earth surrounded by ground-scrubbing bushes
where water bubbled up from an ancient pipe in a dark abyss down
below. She would walk the path by the familiar sound of the
trickling stream with a light metal bowl in hand to the spring then
claw her way down the crater wall to the water. Stomach wining with
anticipation, she kissed the water, sucking the cold through her
before dunking the bowl, freezing it to her finger flesh.
Clambering out to
the path with bowl sloshing overhead and water veins running down
over hand. She felt the ilvi stir in the house.
Senegal bent his
neck into the cauldron, forepaws on the edge, tasted meal with his
nose holes. It tasted to him sour, spoiled yet rife with tiny
animals, sweet and acrid at once and it tickled. He sneezed and
jumping backed away from the cauldron batting at his nose.
Must you do such
things? Bijou stood still in his spot, orange eyes glancing down
at his brother below.
It burns at my
curious nerve, he reproachful replied, looking up at Bijou. His
head bobbed with constant sniffing. I understand not how they are
nourished by such substance as this. Strange creatures they are.
Well you’ll
learn nothing by sticking your nose in their food.
It is a place to
start at least. Where would you have me look? Then distracted
by a newer smell, Senegal wandered off to a corner, scratching now
and then at the stony floor.
Such things are
not for us to know. It was Monk now, opening a single sleepy eye
from his curled up mass under chair. We eat our food, they eat
theirs. It matters not the hows or whys.
Bijou yawned.
Leave him his wonders as he will. He is young yet, he will learn
soon enough.
With a snort Monk’s
eye closed again only to be opened once more as Bango leapt from her
shirt pile onto Senegal’s back, a blurry white shriek of joy. Monk
sighed loud letting his distaste be known, but neither youngster
noticed. He curled tighter.
Get off me, I’m
smelling!
You did so
straight into my trap, thief! Do not deny, you’re after my hoarded
shinies!
I thought I
smelled beetles, you nit, now get off! And with a dark grunt
from his throat Bango was flipped on her back and her quarry
scattered off a flurry of clacking claws, jumped to book pile to
chair and back to table, glowering down at her.
Come and face me
you currish coward!
Leave me alone,
Bango, I’m right off the mood.
Oh come,
Senegal, you’re less fun than Terak.
And so be it.
Bango shook
herself a shiver running down her back and looked about the room.
Fine! Where is Mung, he’ll play with me.
Terak yawned her
way out of a sleeve and out of silence. He went off after the
human, he did. For once patience, sister, he’ll return again soon.
Humph. Always
following the Starchaser he is. What hopes he to gain from following
her springward?
It’s not the
Starchaser he follows. It was that Odann boy. Terak rolled
slowly on her back gazing at her sister with ears flattened to the
floor. I know not what he wants from that one. Mung is a strange
one he is.
A grunt and a hop
and Bango loped out through the cloth door and squeezed through the
hole in the front room outdoors. White fur glinting over rocks,
through scrub grasses, picking carefully along faded path. She
followed the faint footprints and claw marks aided by Mung’s
lingering musk, but her sharp eyes saw no movement ahead. By and by
she stopped, planting her backside in the dirt, ears flattened and
she concentrated.
Mung, where are
you! Come homeward, I’m bored and no one will play with me!
Anyway, you ought not chase Odann, you’ll scare them. You’ll
bring naught but trouble. She waited,
listened, stopping only once to let her hind leg thump-scratch an
itchy earwing. Mung! Come home, come back! You’ll worry the
Starchaser! Gusts roamed the scarred plain, ruffled clumps of
grasses and played with her senses, bringing smells that did not
belong and sounds that churned in her earscapes and it dried her
eyes. Mung!!
Bango, stop your
worry. He approached from the side, crawling to her off path.
She snapped her eyes freezing on him plodding forth under shadow and
scrub. None saw me. If I can skulk through CitySky we need not
fear a few Odann. He was calm but his tone uneasy and his nose
did not twitch as he walked. She popped up at him and he refrained
from flinching as her teeth found his neck skin and shook hard. Half
his size, she shook herself.
You frightened
me, bully! Brute! What shall happen when the Starchaser comes in
and finds us both gone, what will she think then?
Wonder you
truly? He whipped his head knocking her hold from his pelt and
she rolled to her feet, prancing in circles around him as he plodded
paw over paw homeward. I think she will know exactly where we
are.
She would know
better if we stayed put. What do you out here, why follow the Odann
boy?
I followed him
for the poem.
I see, thought
you’d steal yourself a snack, did you? Naughty is Mung.
I only wished to
smell. I do not steal the Poet’s words, only taste them on the
wind unless freely given.
Then your nose
is so brown it stinks!
Or rather it
smells.
She charged
his belly and whumped him on his side. A rotten punster you are.
And bounced on ahead.
Mung rolled back to
standing and shook the dust from his fur. Quick wits make for
quick feet it’s said. His rump angled high a twitching tail as
he folded for a spring. And so shall I catch you! He sprang
barreling after the bouncing youngster who shrieked in excitement and
took his chase.
It was warm gruel
the meal made and her stomach grumbled happy as she ate. The fire
warmed the little house with sputters and pops across from her bed
where she sat savoring the malty grain taste slipping through mouth
and throat. Senegal from his table bed sniffed curious at the steam
from the cauldron and sneezed, throwing his balance from the perch.
He tumbled whumping to the floor and jumped up, shook body from front
to end.
Her head
tick-tocked left and right as she smiled at the young ilvi. “That
will do you no good, to your stomach or your head.” Senegal
sneezed again and scurried to a corner, nose to ground. Another
mouthful heated and soothed her angry throat and she felt it with
eyes closed. “And Monk, where is your brother? He goes hungry and
your haul is hidden.”
Monk looked up with
a yawn and stretched from under table as the poet ate. He trundled
his frame through cloth door, poked his front through the outside
hole to find sounds of scuffle and play. Two ilvi tumbled in a
wrestle of claws and teeth among the scrubbish weeds beyond. When
you are quite finished dirtying your pelts the Starchaser would like
you inside. Mung has a meal coming.
Mung’s brownish
bulk shook itself to standing, the younger one in his teeth struggled
in vain. Thought I to be punished with hunger, Mung thought
with firm grip on Bango’s napeskin. He dragged her toward the hole
as she kicked and grunted.
Punished why?
Monk pulled back through the hole aside for his brother. You’ve
not misbehaved that I know.
Naught been
naughty? Let me go, I’ll give you a thrashing!
Mung shook her
through the hole. Quiet, Bango. You’ll not be rude to Monk.
He dropped her and she ran with a squeak through the cloth door.
You’ve been
punning with her again, haven’t you?
Monk’s
disapproval tickled him. A little harmless fun only hurts the
bugs. Now what’s this of a meal?
You were unfed
upon our return, were you not? Monk clacked away through to
where the poet sat. Come, why thought you to be punished?
Mung
followed after. I gave her a fright is all.
The poet sat where
Monk had left her. The empty bowl by folded knee, her lap now held
her blank book where she tore out another verse.
One night I
dreamt a tower
piercing through
a crust of snow
and I looked not
at its apex,
just the crystal
down below
where the sources
of our lifeblood
told us all there
is to know.
Full of stories,
full of wisdom
giving food, that
we may grow.
Within the
crystal mirror
we were beautiful
and clean,
clever children
of a mother
who could see us
through a screen
of a window in
the tower
with the glorious
polished sheen
and we never even
knew her
but we knew she
was our queen.
Numberless our
masses
standing straight
in golden hive
as we watched the
preparations
for the ones yet
to arrive.
There I was,
inside this heaven,
and I felt my
spirit dive
and I felt my
heart still beating
but I did not
feel alive.
The
paper held to Mung's nose, she smiled as he sniffed and his eyes of
glassy orange scanning her face. Fearful, no claws resting on her
lap and the faintest shiver with the shallow whuf whuf of
the nostrils.
“There
is no poison here, Mung. A long awaited dinner. You did not truly
think I would let you go hungry?”
A
moment more hesitation, then a ginger tug with foreteeth. The paper
slipping soft whispers through thumb and forefinger and Mung blinks,
backing away. Bijou watches envious from his perch on the table.
The poet watches, curious as the ilvi slinks away. She does not know
his hiding place.
Through
a hole in ancient walls Mung slipped his way through a maze of dust
and dirt and fiber, coming at last through to a small metal space
lined with scraps of dry blank paper and cloth snips. Sat down and
curled in nolight, dinner in his teeth he set it lightly in the nest.
The Odann boy clutching paper to its chest trudged through the wind
and cold, a foolish youth flashing through the Ilvi's mind, tracking
scent of poem.
The
secret lies in our food, not in theirs.
He whuffs and sniffs and tastes the air for the heady scent the poem
gives him and he tries to understand.
